Letters with Love
by CannibalDinner
Summary: A man named Francis Bonnefoy has mistakenly been sending letters to Ivan Braginsky. They are complete strangers to each other, and Ivan has had enough with the mail. So, he decides to send a letter back to Francis to inform him of his error. How will Francis react when he realizes what's been happening?


A/N: Enjoy

* * *

_Bonjour Alexandra!_

_Ah mon cheré, I've missed you! Why haven't you replied to none of my letters? You are breaking mon cœur! But I am sure you are reading my letters._

_How is Russia? I remember you told me your grandpère is sick, I hope he is well. You should bring him with you back to my house. There is pleasant weather here in France. I've heard it gets very cold in Russia; they have an unforgivable winter each year_

_. So I insist you come back to see me! And I will show you the luxuries that my homeland has to offer. It will be even better with the Christmas holidays around the corner. Please, give me an answer soon and I can make arrangements._

_Yours,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

The fifth letter this month. Ivan grunted, flinging it aside. The man kept on receiving these love letters from France. It appeared that the woman, Alexandra, gave him the wrong address. Maybe even on purpose. Whatever the reason, he was getting tired of getting them. He never received mail and he liked it that way.

He pondered for a moment, attempting to think of a way to stop the incoming letters. There was only one way, and that was to send a letter to the man himself, he seemed to be French. Ivan had the return address, so all he had to do was write a polite (or perhaps angry) letter stating the mistake the Frenchman was making.

Ivan stood up, pushing his chair back and set about to find the proper materials. He collected a pen, a musty piece of paper, an envelope, but no stamp. He would need to get the stamp from the post office. It wasn't a problem, so he sat down and began to write.

However, nothing came out from the tip of the pen. He jabbed the pen several times on the paper, making only scratches on the surface. The Russian took a look at the pen, and guessed that the ink was probably frozen. Just about everything in his plain house was frozen. The windows were iced over, any fabrics were stiff, and pretty much everything else was cold. Ivan didn't mind; he simply brought the pen close to his mouth to blow hot air.

After a few moments he tried again to write, with success. There wasn't any particular reason for him to rush, so he took his time. Every now and then his pen would stop in midair as he took a moment to collect his thoughts, having to translate Russian to English. His pen would hover and would spell out a word every now and then in the air. But he was confident that he would write whatever he needed correctly, he just needed to refresh. When he finally finished, he read over his work. It read;

_Dear Mr. Francis Bonnefoy,_

_You have wrong address. There is no Alexandra here, or anywhere in this area. It is indeed Russia though, but you are sending your letters to the wrong house._

_Please stop, I do not like having to get this mail. I cannot help you in any other way._

_-Ivan Braginsky_

It seemed simple enough. Simple and straight to the point. Ivan smiled in content, and tucked it into the envelope, along with all the other letters that were mistakenly sent. He licked the flap and shuddered. It never tasted good. Once he sealed it he promptly wrote down the Frenchman's address from one of the torn envelopes that were sitting on the edge of his wooden table. He scribbled it on, and then went to put on his jacket and hat.

At the doorstep he slipped into his thick-soled boots, and tucked the letter into the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened the door, and was greeted by the cold winds that blew unmercifully.

He slowly trudged along, his foot sinking into the snow halfway up his calf. It wasn't snowing at least, but the wind whistled and attempted to blow into any exposed flesh or weak points in his clothing. Ivan pulled his scarf up to his nose, and kept his eyes pointed to the ground.

Ivan mused to himself, 'Da, it is very cold in Russia, Mr. Francis,' As if to mentally answer the man's question from the most recent letter.

He walked down the smaller, more abandoned streets, not seeing a soul anywhere. But once he arrived to the main streets of the center of the town, there was certainly liveliness going on. Despite the cold crowds of people were out and about in their business, whether it was selling items out on the street, to going to their destinations like Ivan.

Maybe didn't bother glancing at him, or anyone else at all. They were engrossed in their own worlds, too preoccupied to notice anyone else. Or perhaps the coldness got to their hearts.

Once he arrived to his own destination, the post office, he lingered at the door to brush off any excess snow that built up on his shoulders and head. He took a look around and only saw one lone employee working, organizing mail and packages to their rightful place.

The employee had his back against Ivan, but it appeared he didn't hear Ivan's entry. But Ivan stood there at the counter, with the letter at hand and waited. Long moments past, and the only sounds were from the employee's raspy breathing and shuffling of papers.

Ivan scratched his head, and cleared his throat loudly. The working man simply glanced over, and gave him a stern look. He turned back and collected the stuff and pushed them aside in a neat pile. Then he went to serve Ivan.

No words were exchanged, and Ivan had only pointed at the blank upper right corner of his letter. The employee grunted in understanding, and pulled out a stamp. Ivan handed the man coins, the soft clinking into the other's hand and then taking the letter to put it into a large plastic box. A very smooth transaction. The two men nodded each other, a silent bidding of farewell, and Ivan left.

Now with that business was done, Ivan decided to treat himself with a nice bottle of vodka. There was a store nearby, so he walked in that direction. As he walked, he began to think about the Frenchman writer. He honestly didn't care whether that person replied or not, but he wondered about the type of person the man was.

From the letters the Russian opened and read, he concluded that the Frenchman was rich and often indulged himself. The content of the letters consisted of rants ranging from pastries this, operas that, lewd descriptions that he had spent with Alice, and the marvelous ballet play he had seen the month before. Ivan tsked, everyone knew Russia were the best when it came to ballet. It was probably that Francis was disgustingly flirtatious and flamboyant. Probably sleeps around, too.

What a complicated life, he thought to himself. As nice as it might seem, Ivan would eventually retreat into solitude, as he currently was doing at the moment. He purchased his bottle, and sat in an indoor seating area. He gripped the neck of the bottle and took a swig. Ivan stopped thinking about Francis and his petty problems

Francis moaned, flopping himself onto his lush sofa. The pretty girl he hooked up with hasn't replied at all. He couldn't call or anything because all she gave him was that address to her grandfather's house in Russia. Maybe the postal system was slow in Russia. With all that snow he shouldn't be surprised if his letters got lost or took a while to get to the girl. So, he sent even more letters in hopes that one of them was bound to be answered.

Oh well, he thought. Not much was meant to last in one night stands.

* * *

A/N: So I'm not sure where I'm going with this. Sorta wrote it on impulse. But update soon because I have nothing better to do with my life during the summer! I'll try to make it longer too.


End file.
